An accident leaves Natasha without her memories, without anyone to guide her, and the Red Room chasing after her, the odds are not in her favour… unless those that love her find her first.
Whumptober 2025: Day 30 - Mirror
Warnings: brief mention of child abuse, red room flashback
Word Count:1.9k
Summary: Natasha and Yelena run. Natasha tries to remember
A/N: one to goooooo
Whumptober Masterlist/Masterlist of Fic / ao3
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LONDON / OCTOBER 6/ 1:42PM
The ambulance, police and fire brigade come quicker than Natasha thought they would.
With eyes on Ysabel, and eyes on Yelena and Clint, she gives herself a headache looking around to try and gauge danger.
It feels impossible.
She hates it.
It feels so unsafe, with so many people around.
Tony falls and she watches Steve and Fury help, her legs start to towards them,
Ysabel’s watch beeps and Natasha is on her, ripping the watch away from her skin, to stamp on it, much to Ysabel’s chagrin.
“You think, a bomb?” she laughs, “just my time is up, and now I’m really defected.”
Natasha looks up.
They take away the dead bodies.
They’re bundling Tony into an ambulance. She feels so responsible. This is all her fault.
Her head pounds, vision fuzzy around the edges.
She’s no good to anyone.
She finds Fury in the crowd, and motions for him to come over.
“She’s first, take her?” she requests, the authority of the man makes her defer to him, but she’s not really sure why. Clint did, so she follows that lead.
Natasha decides that she wants to talk to Clint, get out of here, and if she can’t do the former then she’s set on doing the latter.
Fury motions for two agents, dressed in black and helmets to boot, to come over and take her; his face somber, blood still on the side of his head where one of the widows had knocked him out.
Ysabel is helped into standing, and looks at Natasha, face reddening from the slap.
“I’ll be in touch with a favour,” she announces.
“And in return I have a gift.”
Natasha looks at her sharply.
“What?”
“A gift, and a favour,” Ysabel tells her over her shoulder as she’s pushed into a waiting blacked out car.
Fury looks at Natasha, taking in her confusion and deeming it genuine.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
She shrugs.
“I don’t know.”
.
Yelena sighs.
It’s time to leave. She focuses her hurt and the deep longing she feels to stay, and be with people that maybe understand her.
Her head pounds, the sedative still pulsing through her system.
She thinks Clint knows she’s going to run, the frequent side glances to check that she’s there give his worry away.
There is so much going on. People everywhere and she’s too sedated to think through anything.
Ysabel is carted away, her head still high as they manhandle her into the back of a black van.
Two steps back and Yelena looks for a way out, she could steal a car, or maybe disappear into the tube station.
The tube seems easier, more options of escape perhaps, and even though the cameras in London are not something she wants to contend with, she knows that she’ll not stay long enough. The airport is easy to get to and she can easily steal a passport.
Another step back and she feels a hand on hers.
“Please don’t,” Natasha asks, looking at her intently.
“Please.”
It’s like no one is around them as Yelena stares at her.
The want and need to run feels overwhelming but her feet stay in place.
“We can find somewhere together, we don’t have to stay here,” Natasha assures looking around.
“Just… please don’t go.”
Yelena nods, isn’t this what she’s wanted since she was six years old? Time with her sister?
She looks around and sees Clint watching them.
He nods and moves around to guard their retreat.
He throws the phone to Yelena, and looks at Natasha.
Whatever is spoken in the looks and nods between them, Yelena doesn’t know, she trusts them though, and it’s a feeling that is both familiar and unfamiliar.
.
Natasha grabs Yelena’s hand and they move quickly to the station. The tube presents options and they both know it.
The phone that Clint threw to Yelena buzzes with a message and Yelena holds it up for Natasha to see.
An address.
“Do we go?” Yelena asks, taking two steps at a time down into the bowels of the train station.
Natasha nods slowly.
“You trust Clint?”
Yelena’s nod is slow.
“Then we go,” Natasha says definitively.
They catch the first train that comes, and navigate their way to Watford.
The safe house is nestled in between townhouses and doesn’t look like anything special.
The whole ride, neither Natasha or Yelena spoke, both lost in the last 5 days, every time Yelena had gone to say something she’d looked over and seen Natasha’s quiet contemplation and stopped herself.
All the questions she wanted to ask.
All lost.
This woman. This stranger.
All the time lost between them and everything she wanted to ask her, taken from her; again.
Her heavy sigh as she walks through the door doesn’t go unnoticed by Natasha who looks so beaten, she doesn’t want to know how much it hurts.
“Clint will find us here, and probably the rest of shield if he tells them,” Yelena starts, unable to keep quiet.
“Do you think they’ll take Ysabel somewhere bad?”
It’s a fear she has, captured by the enemy or captured by the Red Room, both make her want to keep running as neither are good options.
The red room always drummed it into them.
Natasha shrugs.
Of course she doesn’t know. That information is lost along with her mind.
Isn’t that the more terrifying thing?
Not knowing who to trust?
Or maybe, it’s instinct.
“What do you remember?” She asks, sitting at the bench table of the kitchen, the tall bar chairs seemingly more inviting than the couch.
The couch seems more like somewhere they’d sit and reminisce on good times, the kitchen feels more like they’re making a plan.
Natasha opens the fridge, nothing appealing.
She opens a cupboard and takes the peanut butter out, and the dry crackers that sits alongside them.
Yelena stifles a smile.
Just like Clint.
Her movements mirror his, just days ago.
Even down to offering her one.
She takes it.
Natasha is quiet, Yelena is learning, and much like when they were children, she doesn’t rush to speak unless she has thought through all the consequences of her words.
Yelena remembers her doing it as a kid, she knew what would set off Alexei, and how to manipulate Melina into what doing what she wanted.
She was talented in her verbal manipulation.
“I remember bits of many things,” Natasha decides on.
“Okay,” Yelena sighs, “what do you remember of me?”
She asks flat out, she wants to know so much, anything that Natasha is willing to impart. She has no way of knowing if it is true or not but she wants it.
“There was a swing, when we were little,” Natasha starts, “we used to go on it and take turns when they wanted us out of the house. When people used to come over.”
Yelena nods.
“Melina and Alexei,” she offers, “they posed as our parents.”
Natasha whispers their names.
“Yes. Alexei. I hated him.”
Yelena’s heart sinks. She didn’t.
He was the only father figure she’d ever known. A man of flaws, and someone who reacted purely on instinct but someone that she’d idolised.
“Why?”
Natasha looks over, wondering if she’d said something wrong; Yelena’s voice so small.
“It’s okay,” she decides, pushing aside the memories of being hit when he was drunk, or taking a beating after ushering Yelena outside.
“Melina too?” Yelena asks.
“I don’t have many memories of her, now anyway,” Natasha responds.
“What about…” Yelena pauses.
“What happened after we got split up?”
Yelena feels her voice get desperate.
“Did you look for me?”
Her voice breaks, and Natasha is by her side holding her head and pushing their heads together in comfort.
She speaks Russian, finding the words easier to grasp as she assures Yelena that she looked for her.
“I tried so hard.”
Natasha twists her hands, forcing herself to breathe.
“The compound they sent me to,” Natasha pauses, trying to grasp the memories as they pound through her head.
“They put a guard on me and another girl, every time I tried to escape or stepped out of line, she’d get beaten, and every time she did anything they deemed as out of order, I would.”
Natasha swallows, hating the memory of her friend bruised and bloody.
“I mean, they killed her anyway, but I didn’t stop, and I never forgot.”
Yelena doesn’t look up.
Natasha wipes at her face and gets up off the chair, looking in the cupboards.
“They sent me into isolation. Then, when I was so desperate for someone, anyone to talk to, they gave me to adults, to learn. I thought someone would come. Someone might save me. I think it took a year or so before I realised no one was coming.”
She sniffs and lets her tears fall.
“I feel I had so much to tell you,” Natasha starts, “so much that just feels lost by whatever it is they gave me. That they knew we’d be here and they’ve ruined it again.”
“It’ll come back,” Yelena assures, but even she isn’t sure it’s the truth.
.
Natasha stares at herself in the mirror, touching her face gently, the bruising more greenish than the deep blue green it was.
Yelena cried herself to sleep, and Natasha stayed awake, gently pulling her closer and stroking her hair, just like she remembered she had done when they were small.
Her breathing had evened out and Natasha had covered her with a blanket.
She was too wired to sleep.
She kept going over the events of the day, the people she’d met, and the ones who had seemed so pleased to see her.
She thinks of Diana, and hope she’s okay. Clint had assured she was, that she was with a friend he trusted.
Natasha finds a toothbrush under the sink, and brushes her teeth, spitting blood and hoping that her teeth are okay.
She washes her face, ties up her hair and looks at herself again.
Who was she without her memories?
So much was lost.
Only bad things seemed to remain.
The persistent headache that plagued her still hadn’t gone and she still felt nauseous
Was this always her?
Natasha looks out into the lounge room, listens for Yelena’s breathing and heads back into the kitchen.
The mobile buzzes, and she looks to see Clint has messaged three times.
She opens the first, asking if they made it.
The second message tells her that he’s stuck in debrief and will meet them in the morning, and the third tells them that Ysabel escaped.
Natasha wants to call him, ask what happened but she knows that if she did it would wake Yelena.
Likely it can wait until morning.
She sends a question mark as a message, and after a minute, sends another message letting him know they arrived safe and that Yelena was asleep.
“I’m glad she stayed.” Is his reply.
“Me too,” she writes back.
“Are you feeling okay?” He types back.
She’s not sure how to answer.
“I need some sleep,” she decides on, “Where are you?”
Clint takes a moment to reply.
“Debrief. I’ll be done by sunrise.”
She smiles at that, the bruises on her face pull.
“Will you come here afterwards?”
It takes ten minutes for him to reply and she imagines him in a dark room, getting interrogated and feels the anxiety in him doing it alone.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Just have a couple of things left to do. Keep Yelena there. Get some sleep and I’ll be there soon.”
Natasha feels heavy.
Heavy with sleep, as she settles down on the bed.
Heavy heart as she checks Yelena is still sleeping.
After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.
Whumptober 2024: Day 16 - ‘no, I can’t feel anything’
Warnings: panic, self harm, medical procedure
Word Count: 2k (gif not mine)
Summary: they won’t let her see Clint. Desperate times.
Masterlist
Whumptober Masterlist
(A/N- halfwayyyy! <3)
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Natasha opens her hand, the wounds large on her knuckles as she picks at them absentmindedly.
She hasn’t wiped the blood off the glass, just like they haven’t washed his blood off the floor.
She thinks they’ll get around to it, but it’s clearly not a priority.
Sweat still clings to her.
She closes her eyes and they’re beating him. She can’t get the images out of her head.
She’ll kill them, she’s sure of it.
Once they let her out, she’s going to kill them. Even if Thompson then kills her.
She doesn’t care anymore.
She wipes the blood off on her t-shirt, the black SHIELD issued clothing becoming darker with the stain of red.
Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, centering herself.
Deciding not to dwell on the fact that she may have traded one organisation for an equally corrupt organisation, she stares doggedly at the hallway entrance, wishing for someone to come.
She needs to know he’s alive.
He was when they took his broken body.
He didn’t look dead, just on his way there.
She bites down harder.
Taking a breath, she waits.
.
Maria locks down Natasha’s cells more thoroughly. She adds only herself, Clint, Coulson, Fury, two recruits she knows and trained personally, and Sharon.
She worries for the spy.
Clint’s attack was clearly targeted.
To have it done in front of Natasha was a show.
Her phone rings, Coulson’s ID flashing.
“Any news?” She asks in greeting.
“He’ll be okay. Broken ribs, broken nose, broken arm and bruising. Nothing internal they can see, so bed rest for at least two weeks.”
Maria opens his SHIELD file.
“Not in medical-” she starts.
“No, but there’s only a few truly safe places for him.”
“Maybe he can take her,” she jokes, but even as the words come out, she knows it’s a good plan. “Coulson, maybe they can go, we can finish up here, and they can go.”
He stays silent for a moment.
“Let’s get him stable first, and then make some plans.”
Maria nods.
“Someone needs to check on her.”
“Someone needs to stay with him.”
Maria sighs heavily.
“Fine. But if she does anything, you’ve got her for the next week.”
“I don’t think I’m getting the better part of the deal,” Coulson replies, “he’s in medical.”
Maria suppresses a laugh.
“The two that did it? Were they on the list?”
Coulson takes a moment.
“Yes, but we only got one. The other is at large.”
“I think I know, but why Clint? Was it because of her?”
“I think… a warning. For both of them. For us? I don’t know. The quicker we get this done the better. Has the news started to filter in the gossip chains?”
Maria glances at her other phone.
“That there’s been some disappearances?”
Coulson doesn’t reply.
“Yes,” Maria continues, “people have noticed. But SHIELD’s a big operation, no one is too suspicious, yet.”
“That’s good,” he replies. “I have to go, the doctors are coming.”
“Yeah okay, ask them when he’ll be ready to move.”
“Will do. Thanks Maria.”
And with that the call ends.
Maria sighs heavily, hoping that Clint doesn’t have any lasting trauma from the attack. She scoffs to herself. It’s a stupid notion.
She thinks of Natasha, trauma central, and opens the cameras.
The woman stands staring at the door.
The blood on the windows is stark red against the whiteness of the room.
Maria frowns.
Stares.
Waits for her to move but she doesn’t.
She knows she needs to go and see her, probably tell her that he’s going to be okay, but her feet don’t move, stuck in limbo as she watches the woman.
The blood on the floor is Clint’s.
Grief for her friend hits her, and she sucks in a breath.
She needs to move.
One foot in front of the other, she tells herself.
.
Clint groans.
He hurts. He feels the familiar drag of painkillers and reaches up to touch his face, finding a drip in his left hand, the sensation of pain familiar.
“We got one of them,” he hears Coulson say. “You’re okay, just beaten up.”
Clint holds a thumb up, hoping it conveys everything.
His arm is heavy.
He remembers.
His body.
Hurts.
He feels so tired.
“Natasha,” he says, his throat sore and dry. “Check?”
Coulson takes his hand and places it back down on the bed, the movement comforting and reassuring.
“Sleep,” he prompts, as Clint feels the pull into darkness.
.
Maria walks down the hall grudgingly.
She had been planning to go.
She tells herself that anyway.
But when Coulson had called and said it was a request from Clint, she knew she had to go now, before she left for the night.
The last corner finds Natasha staring at her, still in the same position she had watched her in hours ago.
She walks forward to the window and greets her.
Natasha adjusts her position.
Maria sees the welts on her hands, the blood red scabs from punching the glass.
“That must hurt,” she states, looking at her hands.
“No.”
Natasha’s voice is clearer than Maria remembers.
Perhaps with purpose.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes,” Maria responds, not wanting to elaborate.
“Can I see him?”
She thinks for a moment. Looks at Natasha’s hands, the way she tried to help.
“No,” she decides. “But when he is better, we can take you.”
Natasha’s eyes flash with anger, it’s gone in an instant, but it puts Maria on edge.
“Take me to see him?” she asks again.
Maria frowns, wanting to leave. She’s tired, she wants to go home, not deal with the Russian assassin and her demands.
“No,” she repeats.
Natasha takes a step closer to the bloody wall.
Leaning back, she smacks her head hard against the window.
Once.
Twice, before Maria reacts.
“What are you!? Stop!”
Natasha hits it a third time, cracking her skin and opening a fissure on her forehead that starts to bleed profusely.
She leans back again, showing no signs of stopping.
Maria swipes the door to open, and Natasha misses her mark of hitting her head for a fourth time.
In hindsight, Maria recognises that this was the only way that she could see Clint, the only power that she has in a very powerless situation.
“Stop!” Maria’s voice echoes in the room.
The command holds power as Maria holds Natasha’s arms.
“Stop, I’ll take you to him.”
She feels cornered.
Blood drips down Natasha’s face, the bruise already forming, and the cut wide.
“Stop,” she says again, just so it’s clear.
Fear, in the lengths that Natasha would go to see that Clint is okay, curls in her gut.
She’s not sure it’s the right decision to send them away together, but maybe, it will give her another purpose.
She doesn’t trust her with national secrets, but maybe she does trust her with her friend.
And maybe that’s more important than National Security.
“Handcuffs,” she sighs, producing a tissue and handing it over.
Natasha points to the bed.
“Get them.”
Maria doesn’t want to step inside Natasha’s cell, like entering someone’s room, or home without permission.
Natasha does as she’s told, stepping backwards and watching that Maria doesn’t move towards the button that closes the door. The handcuffs are placed on and Maria gestures for her to come forward.
Bloody tissue in hand, Natasha blots blood out of her eye-line.
“You’re insane,” Maria mumbles looking at her.
“I need to make sure he’s okay. I can’t… I owe him.”
The brief sentence makes Maria pause mid-step.
“You owe him?”
She’s sure Clint would never put a quid pro quo on a life, not one that he’s put this much energy into saving, and proving she’s an asset and not a liability.
Natasha stops alongside her.
“I owe him,” she repeats. “He can’t die until I know what the debt is.”
Maria starts forward again.
“You did something for us,” she starts, her voice purposefully low. “There’s a mole in SHIELD,” she admits.
Natasha’s harsh laugh makes her glance back.
“Double agents are everywhere. You think Russians are the only ones that house American spies in their midst? Any fool would know that they house agents that work both sides. Only bigger fools let them get promoted to director.”
Maria stops again.
Natasha clenches the blood soaked tissues.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
Natasha wipes at her face again.
“Your face tells me I’m right.”
Maria snarls.
“I don’t like you,” she tells her.
Natasha blinks languidly at her.
“I know.”
The last key swipe leads them out, and Maria starts the walk to medical.
Natasha is lucky that it’s late. Only the janitorial staff and a few agents milling around. No one gives them a second glance.
Looking back, Maria finds Natasha’s head bowed, eyes cast to the floor.
Blood dripping and making a trail.
“Are you doing that on purpose?” she asks.
“Because if you are, the floors get wiped down frequently. So there’s no chance of you following it out.”
Natasha touches the tissue to her nose.
Maria ignores the action.
The first elevator is quick, but the second that leads to medical is slow.
Natasha looks at the signs, she sees the hyper vigilance in her eyes as she spies the arrows.
The signs of fear are subtle.
The slight beads of sweat along her brow.
Small inhalations of breath that are more measured, like she’s practicing meditation.
The way her muscles seem to tense on every step, like she wants to run away but it’s sheer force of will that keeps her moving forward.
“Don’t kill anyone,” she mutters.
Natasha nods.
She’d been joking but apparently it was a consideration.
Maria decides against the medical team.
She didn’t like Natasha but she knew a risk when she saw it.
“Turn.”
She pushes Natasha into a medical bay.
The bed inside seems to make Natasha balk.
“Sit.”
The order seems to help.
The panic flits across her face momentarily before it’s dampened down into an impassive mask; Maria doesn’t miss it. She looks curiously at the woman in front of her, the blood doesn’t seem to phase her, but the room does.
“I’ll get the doctor.”
She watches the fear reaction play out in real time.
“No,” Natasha says, her voice almost inaudible.
Maria rolls her eyes.
“You need stitches, you don’t do things half assed, and that will continue to bleed.”
Natasha wipes at her head, the clink of the handcuffs shift Maria’s focus.
“You.”
The request is whispered but forceful.
“No doctors. Please?”
Maria doesn’t know why Natasha has a fear of doctors, but she does feel sorry for her. She knows the vulnerability costs her. Knows by the way Natasha won’t make eye contact or the way she squeezes her hands to stop them shaking. It breaks open the wounds on her knuckles and Maria is reminded of how hard she must have hit the glass when Clint was being beaten.
“Fine,” Maria says, “but it might not be neat.”
Natasha shrugs, fingers rubbing the raw skin on her hands.
Maria hands Natasha a towel.
She finds the antiseptic wash, the pain killers, gloves and the numbing cream.
“Do you want these?” she asks, holding up the pain killers.
Natasha shakes her head, staring at the blue gloves, now on Maria’s hands.
As gentle as she can, she rubs the numbing cream on Natasha’s head.
The only reaction is a flinch.
Maria cleans Natasha’s hands first. Slowly, she opens them up, washing the blood, putting the antiseptic on and watching for a reaction.
Natasha seems out of it.
Maria isn’t sure if it’s the blood loss, or the place, or a combination, She wraps each with a bandage. First the left, and then the right.
She wipes the blood again.
“Do you feel this?” Maria asks, gently touching her forehead.
It takes a minute for Natasha to answer.
“No. I don’t feel anything.”
Maria thinks there’s more to her statement than she understands. Touching her head, she realises the wound seems more superficial than deep.
She opts for glue over stitches.
Gently, she washes the wound.
“He’s okay, you know.”
Cleaning it carefully, wiping the blood away, she continues.
“Broken ribs, broken nose, broken arm, some bruising,” she lists. “Nothing he hasn’t had before.”
Natasha’s eyes focus behind Maria, but subtly her breathing changes.
SUBMISSION: How about a nasty sweaty incel shiggy waiting everyday for his dad to go to work so that he could have his relief with stepmom?
Excellent submission! Love that. Love that a lot! I find it only fair to warn you, however, that I won’t be doing mommy kink for it. Mommy kink is one of my squicks, and one of the very, very few I have. I’ll do the closest thing to it though: Daddy kink. Also I find the irony of him making his little stepmom call him daddy to be absolutely hilarious.
Also this one is a great concept and I love it but it’s going to have to be a multi-parter cause it got a little bit long. Lemme know if you like the concept and I’ll continue it. Also this posted under anonymous for some reason so cheers to tumblr and its endless fucking glitches that it never fixes or seems to make any better.
Warnings: Noncon, dubcon, sexism, really gross incel behavior, nsfl things, masturbation, violent sexual fantasies, nefarious planning, horrible suggestions from even more horrible friends, absolute LOATHING of family, and entitled bastard.
There is only one thing on this planet that Tomura hates more than his father.
Only one thing can even compare to the level of abject disgust he has for his dad. Everything about the man is abhorrent and degenerate, only tolerated because Tomura is, admittedly, a NEET, and had no where else to go after graduation. But if anything- anything- could hold a candle, it would be his taste in women.
All women are trashy on some level, but his dad really manages to find ones that pretend so hard that they aren’t. Vipers behind the veneer of smiling faces clad in red lipstick and smart skirts. Always “kind”, always “thoughtful”, and always fleeting. Fickle, stupid bimbos charmed by his dads surface level charisma to quickly realize just how shallow the pool became.
Even his own mom was like that: She fucked off once she realized staying with him meant staying with his dad, and that was a sacrifice she wasn’t willing to make. So she left him to rot in this cesspit with his worthless father and no other way out.
He figures he can’t hold it against her, not as much as he’d like. A few weeks with his shriveled up paternal figure and most women quickly figure out they can do so much better. It’s in their nature to seek out the best, and that certainly isn’t Kotaro; A bumbling idiot with nothing to offer on the best of days. They don’t know any better, so they never last long after being brought home to meet his son, and those are the ones that even make it that far.
So when he starts yammering on about meeting yet another skank and how ‘in love’ he already is, Tomura’s eyes roll so far back in his head that he swears his retinas will detach. He makes a point to be around as little as possible, but somehow still manages to catch an earful about his latest fling and how excited he is for Tomura to meet her.
Great.
True to his word, Kotaro brings you home one evening, eager to impress his son with his latest catch.
His father had a lot of nerve dragging him from his room to meet you- his latest glorified slut. Adding insult to injury, you had the unmitigated gall to talk down to him like you were an adult and he wasn’t. Even though you had to crane your neck to look up and greet him, you still talked at him like he was some child. So different from you even though you were so much smaller than he was- barely even a few years older than he is, if even that.
So polite, introducing yourself and gently shaking his reluctant hand, making a point to smile at him and telling him how happy were to finally meet him and that you’d heard so much about him. Your hands were so soft, so little in comparison to his own. He dwarfs his pathetic father, practically towers over you, yet you still talk to him like you’re the adult in the equation.
So young, so pretty, though. Far better than anything his father had a right to pull. They weren’t exactly swimming in cash, the house was nothing in particular to gloat about, and he’d done enough eavesdropping around late at night to know his father suffered a particular… ailment, so it certainly wasn’t sexual satisfaction keeping you around. What was it then?
Probably nothing. You’d probably run off in a few weeks like they all do.
Kotaro is a worthless sack of drooping skin and aging bones; A ghost of a man not worthy of the phantoms he’s seen pass in his years. No longer the dominant male even in his own home: not with a stronger, more virile son coming into his prime under the roof as well. A beta male at best, withering away while his own son eclipses him in strength and intellect and physique. Tomura is in his mid twenties and blooming- His father… who even knows. He doesn’t care- he doesn’t bother to keep track.
So, maybe you really are just a dumb little whore. It would make sense. Father dearest always had been a dirty old man; A raging pervert with wandering hands and lingering eyes. Always sets his predatory sights on some cute thing too good for him.
Then again, the poisoned apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, now does it?
You’re cute enough you could have gotten some alpha at your beck and call, yet you’ve attached yourself to his worthless father who, in turn, parades you around like his most beloved trophy. Taking you to dinners he can’t afford despite your ‘insistence’ that you be allowed to pay, buying you things you claim you don’t need. Oh, how the moron dotes on his whores as if it’s enough to keep them anchored to him.
Strangely though, you don’t run off.
If anything, you sink your claws in even further, getting more and more comfortable and showing up more and more. Every time Tomura leaves his fucking room- which isn’t often- you’re there around the corner, smiling dumb and pretty and greeting him politely.
Fuck, he hates you. Hates your stupid voice, your shitty dresses, hates hearing his father happy for once.
It’s no surprise- but unwelcome no less- that he’d move you in sooner rather than later. Terrified to let you out of his sight for even a second lest you come to what little senses you have in your tiny brain and dump him. Of course, he’s quick to take on all of your burdens as his own, even if it means working overtime to support you. He’s always wanted another little housewife, and now he’s so close.
Tomura listens in on the whole conversation feeling sick to his gut.
You beg him not to- offering to pay your own way just like a good girl, but of course his dumbass dad will hear none of it. He’s more than happy to spend a couple of extra hours at work. His dad is so idiotic, so fucking blind. He’s playing right into it. He’s willing to be your workhorse if it means keeping you all to himself.
He’ll hear none of it. None of the fussing or the questions. You’re welcome in his home, he wants you there. It’s no imposition at all, he knows the house will be better with you around.
Except he forgets one crucial detail-
The son he leaves home alone with you every single day when he leaves.
You’re nothing but a nuisance, something infringing on his private space. The time he used to get home alone to spend to his own devices is now split with you flittering around the house doing whatever it is bimbos like you do. Cleaning, cooking, pretending to read, whatever. He doesn’t have to see you if he doesn’t want, sure, but he still knows you’re there and that’s more than enough to annoy him.
It’s almost like you catch on to his animosity after a while. The way he won’t greet you back, the way he utterly ignores your existence. It bugs you, and as far as he’s concerned, good.
You try to slip him up, try to get close to him and make him like you. You always set a place for him at the table even after Kotaro repeatedly insists- truthfully- that he’ll never join for dinner. Even then, you always bring the plate to his door. He never bothers to answer- not after the first few times when he only opened it a sliver to see your stupid smiling face. After that, he didn’t bother answering. He’ll eat it of course- won’t pass up free food he doesn’t have to leave his room for- and then leave the dirty dish back outside where you left it. You brought it, after all. You can clean it up.
All your efforts only get you mocked, and boy do you try so hard to get his affection. He even overhears you whining to his dad once or twice, not understanding why he doesn’t like you.
It makes him smile.
His friends- online of course, but still friends or comrades or kindred spirits or whatever- have more opportunistic ideas about it. His first post to the forum complaining about the new living situation was met with envy and awe- not necessarily the response he was expecting, though looking back on it, he supposes they were right.
lmpwrst: Why u bitchin’? Ur living with a girl ur not related to and that’s closer than any of us have gotten u ungrateful ass
KingKockRool: Go jerk off on her pillow.
Stacystabber91: take a video hold her down and fuck her then idiot
KingKockRool: No wait till she’s sleeping and jerk it on her face
st8lker: Bet she’s ugly tho if she’s dating your dad lol
Oddly enough, he doesn’t agree. That’s one thing he understands about you, loathe as he is to admit it. His new ‘stepmom’, for all her annoyances, is pretty easy on the eyes. The kinda girl that would have caught his eye in an unrelated situation and earned a permanent spot in his spank bank. Thinking about it, the whole ‘dating his dad’ situation maybe threw off his judgement more than he realized.
He’ll let the jury decide: He finds a photo on your social media, crops everyone else out of it, and hits enter. Easy peasy. He saves it to his hard drive for later too. Might as well.
‘Here, you decide then.’
Thus the shitstorm begins.
st8lker: Oh fuckkk fuck me mommy lmao
lmpwrst: Opportunity is wasted on u
Stacystabber91: you pussy punk bitch, i stand by what I said earlier. dont be a bitch and fuck the little cunt already
VolceliSwear: Whos the bitch
lmpwrst: Scratchy’s new stepmommy lol
VolceliSwear: Nice. Hit it yet?
Stacystabber91: he hasn’t cause he’s a gigantic fuckin pussy like i told you all
VolceliSwear: Come on dude you actually have that gash sleeping in your house and you haven’t made a move?
Stacystabber91: it’s not like she could say no cause you’re a big lanky bastard aren’t you? that’s one thing we got over the shortcels and you’re bigger and stronger than her so take what’s yours idiot or I will
lmpwrst: I agree with SS lol U complain all the time about not having a hole to fuck and now u do
VolceliSwear: ^^ Isn’t your dad a limp-dicked prick who can’t get it up? Someone’s gotta do it so it might as well be you. Hit the bitch so hard and fast she doesn’t know what way is up
Stacystabber91: and send pics moron I want to see tits or I’m coming over there to do it myself
It’s an… intriguing thought. To be honest, he’s never actually considered fucking you before. Had the passive thought like he does with most girls he sees, but never stopped to think on actually doing it. For some reason, there was a mental wall between him and his father’s girlfriends. But why should there be?
Depraved little bastard that he is, he’s not above cornering a girl and forcing himself on her but he’s not keen on going to jail, so he’s never escalated past creepy photos and following the occasional broad a little too closely. Maybe a couple gropes in passing… okay, maybe a lot. But he’s never gotten caught- maybe the girls don’t report it or just couldn’t find him afterward. Either way, it’s all worked out so far because he doesn’t cross certain boundaries.
Most girls are repulsed by him and his repugnant behavior, so they stay far, far away. It’s like he’s a giant blaring warning sign that they tend to heed instinctively.
But you don’t.
This is different. You live here, so close to him, so within reach. Just how close you are. How easy it would be for him to force you down and make you take it. Just how much time alone he really has with you since his father leaves and returns like clockwork. He’s got the entire day once his father leaves for work. And all night once he takes his sleeping medication. An easy, pretty little catch already wiggling in his web.
‘Maybe I will.’
That’s how it starts.
Snowball into snowstorm.
With an idea and a lot of goading from his online buddies, a monster is born and weaned on his own depravity and escalates into something very real, and very dangerous.
Tomura is achingly familiar with the scene- he’s seen enough porn to give him ample ideas. But he’s got all the time in the world. It’s hard not to rush things considering how eager he is, but it’s safer to test the waters first. Get you nice and scared so you’ll keep your pretty mouth shut unless he tells you to open it for him. See how far he can get, how much he can toy with you before you finally catch on.
Who knows? Maybe you’ll fuck him willingly. You are a stupid little slut, after all. Most of you females are deep down beneath that holier-than-thou, stuck up bitchiness you hide behind.
So he starts with a time honored tradition. He steals your panties.
The bathroom is cluttered with your shit. Your fruity shampoos and conditioners, your makeup, your perfumes. Tomura has a toothbrush and a comb he doesn’t use, a bottle of 3-1 for when he forces himself into a shower, and a singular gray towel, but the rest is between you and his father. Your body washes, your scrubs, your clothes in the hamper.
It’s easy enough to fish out a fresh pair- only a couple of hours old. Some lacy contraption you must’ve been wearing beneath your clothes and carelessly left in the bin when you showered. It’s easy to pocket them before you hear him rummaging around, and maybe you’ll miss them, but that’s not his problem. Washer eats things all the time, doesn’t it?
He’s hidden back in his room, safely dodging you before he allows himself to indulge- Bringing them to his nose and inhaling the doubled fabric of the crotch so hard that it catches on the edge of his nostrils.
Fuck, your cunt smell good- tangy and sweet but the tiniest hint of bitter. A couple of whiffs is enough to get his cock twitching, inflating into a painful hardness as he hears you walking around outside in the hallway. Shit, you’re so fuckin’ airheaded, walking around so oblivious as he tongues at the cloth that was nestled right up against your pussy until a few hours ago. He can taste you, sucking your left over essence through his teeth and he swears he’s going to cream all over the inside of his jeans if he doesn’t jerk off right now.
He’s quick to drop his sweats and sprawl on his bed, thumbing the tip of his prick and licking gratuitous stripes up the slim of your discarded panties with his tongue. You’d look so good sucking his cock; On your bruised knees, face a slathered mess of cum and saliva and running makeup. Bulge in your throat from taking him so deep and trying so hard to please him like you always do- or maybe avoid a painful punishment because he isn’t above using his hands on you and you learned that the hard way.
The thought of your ruddy, soppy face makes him throb- fucking your wet little throat until you’re suffocating, pulling out to let you breathe only to cum on your face. Yanking you up to bend you over the stove and force you to make his worthless father’s dinner with his spend tacking across your face and his cock lodged deep in your cunt. Worthless fucking sack of shit that his father is, he’d spit in it too and make you serve it to him with a smile while your actual daddy watches you do it and rewards you later with his dick fucking you between your tits.
Fuck yes, that’s what he’ll make you do. He’ll make you call him daddy when he creampies you- the opportunity is too perfect to pass. He’ll fuck his father’s pretty whore as she screams and moans for daddy’s cock while his father is away at work to pay all her frivolous bills like the beta-cuck he is. None of the work and all of the reward- as it should be.
It’s not like Kotaro can fuck you, and his friends are right. Someone should. So why not him? Why not spread your legs for your boyfriend’s younger, more powerful son? Oh, sorry, did he give you the illusion that you had a choice? He’ll take what is rightfully his and there’s not a fucking thing you or his pathetic fucking father can ever do about it.
He plucks your panties from his face, moving them instead to work over his cock. It would feel so much better if you were wearing them- grinding your sweet little cunt against his dick, begging him not to fuck you but getting so wet all the same. The silky fabric feels so good against his hypersensitive skin, coupled with the clenched pumping of his fist as he daydreams about railing you into his filthy mattress until you’re too weak to even move on your own, his cum dripping from every one of your used holes. Limp, useless little whore too fucked out to even fight him as he fucks her in the ass again-
Fantasies swirl in his head, flashes of scenarios that tease him and work him into a frenzy. He’s going to cum hard to the thought filling you, your agonized face as the tip of him knocks against the opening of your womb, buried so deep in your cute pussy that he can feel the wall that keeps him firmly locked out of your guts. So close, so tight, so warm. He’s going to pump you full to the brim like the skank you are, fill you nice and thick full of his seed and then use you again and again and again-
He feels it in his spine, waves of pleasure furling at the base and congealing together impossibly tight, so ready to burst. His thighs flex, muscles in his stomach tightening and breath staggering. Searing white behind dry, clenched eyes and his cock twitches in his palm, knot bursting deep between his legs as his hand stills momentarily. His hands twitch, cock throbbing as thick ropes of cum spill over the slats of his fingers, splattering his stomach and the waist of his sweatpants and all over your adorable little panties.
“Shit-”
Shallow, shaky breaths, still seeing stars popping behind his eyelids. Fuck, he hasn’t cum that hard in- well, a very long time. Is it the thought of having something tangible soon? His very own cunt to abuse? Grinning, he looks down at the absolutely drenched pair in his hand, sticky with fresh seed.
He thinks so.
Instinctively, he wipes the excess off his fingers and onto his dirty, rumpled black sheets, swiping across his shirt and his skin. Just another ‘mystery spot’ among the rest, soon to become a crusty, flaked white stain on the fabric among all the preexisting ones.
With some effort on his part, he sits up, still trying to catch his breath. He thought post orgasm clarity might deter him from this path, but if anything, he’s even more determined now. Why should he sit and touch himself in a dark room when there’s a perfectly good set of holes to fuck wandering around freely outside?
Oh yeah, this should work out just fine.
There’s a knock on the door while he’s still wading through his gross thoughts, softly at first but then slightly more insistent. It jolts him alert, irritating him that he’s being bothered when he’s scheming. He’s already finished the dirty dead, all ready to put himself away for now but it’s still jarring none the less when someone comes around so closely to him wanking. A quick dash at the clock tells him it’s not dinner time yet, so what gives? Why are you bothering him now? Nothing is ready yet.
He tucks himself away and quickly buries your soiled underwear in the pocket of his sweats. Quickly wiping any remnants on the knees of his pants before swinging his door open, agitation palpable as he greets your stupid, sunny face.
Speak of the she-devil.
“Hi, Tomura! Just wondering if you have any laundry or anything you want me to take!”
“N-”
He’s about to slam the door. About to. But you know what? You want his laundry? Sure. He’s got some for you.
“Yeah- yeah, sure.”
He steps back from behind the door, letting it creak open a little as he rips off his freshly re-soiled sheets.
“Oh, good! Yeah, I’m throwing in my own so I’ll take your load too-“
Yeah you will.
Balling it up, he chucks it at you as you curiously peek your head in. You’ve never seen the inside of his room, but soon you’ll see plenty. He doesn’t know if you can feel the fresh cum on the sheets, but he’s willing to bet you can probably smell it. To your credit, you barely falter, even with the sheet cradled in your bare arms.
You’re probably having a moment of “understanding.” ‘He’s a young man with no girlfriend and no other outlet. Of course he’s going to wack off’ and all that. It’s cute, the way you pretend not to notice. That’s okay, he’ll give you something you can’t ignore.
He steps up to the door again, yanking his black shirt over his head and dropping it in your arms with a shit eating grin.
“Oh- okay, yeah-“
Your sentence halts completely as he starts to strip off his pants and you’re left staring in slight horror as your stepson strips down to his boxers in front of you before placing his sweats on the top of the pile you’re carrying- right by your face.
“I’ve got some more dirty boxers if you think you can handle anymore.” He’s grinning like a fiend, reveling in your poorly concealed discomfort as he leans against the doorframe, swinging out towards you. You’re backing away from him, desperately trying to keep your eyes up and away from his very exposed body, and especially the half hard cock tenting the front of his boxers. Your face is turning a viciously dark shade, stifling your breathing because he just knows what you’re refusing to see, you can almost certainly smell.
“Um- nope! This should be a full one! I’ll get them back to you soon!”
“Oh, take your time. No rush.”
You scurry off down the hall much quicker than your usual casual walk, probably to scrub your arms clean with iron wool. Poor little thing, just trying to be nice and this is what it gets you.
He cackles something fierce as he shuts his door again, going to look for your ruined panties to post a pic but remembering they’re still in the pocket of his sweatpants, covered in his cum and saliva. A fun little surprise for you to find when you go through pockets to ensure nothing gets stuck in the washer.
And he notices, in the coming days, you stop leaving your clothes in the hamper- or even being able to meet his eyes.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Broadchurch
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Paul Coates & Joe Miller, Paul Coates & Mark Latimer
Characters: Paul Coates, Joe Miller, Mark Latimer
Additional Tags: Vigilante Justice, Religious Conflict, Alternate Ending
Summary:
Paul Coates is determined to make Joe Miller face justice.
[it’s time for evillious ranting! again! warning for mentions of sexual abuse and romanticized abuse]
pls ignore if you are done reading The Discourse in the tag
but maybe venomania wouldn’t be my least favorite character if an equal number of fans would stop fucking shipping him with the people he abused, or sugar-coating said abuse with words like “seduce” or “making love”, or if the narrative itself didn’t have several women forgive him for tenuous reasons or push gumina as the One True Love
i don’t think it is unreasonable to say that maybe i’m just tired with fanon and canon trying to romanticize abuse!
(and yes i know there are objectively worse people like riliane who ordered a genocide and still gets a redemption arc with allen and clarith blessing the ground she stands on. tbh i’ve kind of checked out of the allen and riliane subplot anyway. so i don’t even care about what’s happening with them anymore unless/until it causes some major world-shaking event)
(or, even limiting it to characters i actually care about, there’s ney who played an active role in keeping the wars going, with and without a demon possessing her. though it was prim’s abuse that implanted those specific ideas in her, it still doesn’t excuse the way she desecrated bodies as a tool of war, or the way she betrayed mariam. to say nothing of everything she’s done in her other lives or as a spirit of the glass.)
(i love ney and all, but it’d be pretty skeevy if someone were to, say, gush about a hypothetical home life where arth raised her alongside riliane and allen - or, worse, where he and prim raised her together.)
(...i could use this to jump into the shitty ways fandom has treated arth lucifen d’autriche, but this is long enough as it is)
tl;dr i’ll stop salting about venomania’s very existence when mothy stops writing maylis into a relationship with him for the sake of ~*~their child~*~
